Fuss Butt

I have rather serious doubts that my sister-in-law will ever return to visit me and my husband (her younger brother) again. We recently moved into a new home, and quite honestly, I have the new home jitters.

My sister-in-law is a fun person to be around. She has an effervescent personality (bubbly, you might say). She is unpretentious—what you see is what you get—as compared to my measured personality and tone of voice. She is also a very laid-back person, unlike myself.

I did all that I could to prepare for our “first guest visit.” I scrubbed and cleaned to relax, practiced meditation, and made certain to take my B vitamins. However, sure enough, during the course of her stay, I had not one but two freak-out episodes. The first involving the living room couch, and secondly, my new cream colored French upholstered bench. White is a lovely color for clouds who have nothing to do but float about all day, but not so for furniture.

When my poor sister-in-law said she wanted to sit on the living room sofa to practice her beadwork, I hesitatingly remarked, “Really, the couch?” I then pointed towards the stairwell and said, “I set up a nice workstation for you in the guest bedroom.” In hindsight, it did sound as though I was banishing her to the dungeon.

Ever cheerful, she chirped, “It’s far more fun to craft with other people around.”

“I see, could . . . could . . . you just give me a minute?” I then ran to retrieve the largest, thickest, meanest, badass blanket I could find to cover every square inch of my couch. But sadly, my sister-in-law was on to me, and I ended up feeling like a complete schmuck. “But in my defense, your Honor, she was accidentally sitting on a pair of crafting scissors . . .”

Then, there was the water bottle incident, when she attempted to set the bottle down on my brand new cream colored upholstered bench. “Nooooo!” Like I said, I don’t think she will be coming back anytime soon, or if she does, she will probably arrive wearing medical blue surgical scrubs and booties.

Just how on earth did I ever get to be so fussy? I think it all began when I was a little girl standing beside my mother in the grocery store. Each week, when it came time to pay the cashier, my mother would wrestle through her wallet hoping to find her credit card. “Oh, there it is,” she would say, to which we both breathed a sigh of relief.

Because of my mother’s disorganization, I soon became the designated shoe finder (DSF, for short). My mother was constantly losing her shoes. Just how far can one shoe travel in a bedroom? I was also declared my mother’s “Clerk of the Closet,” a position I relished, selecting her daily work clothes. However, her closet was far from organized, when on one occasion, I lost my way while retrieving an outfit, and didn’t surface for a good week.

I don’t mean for this story to be an exposé, painting my mother in a negative light, because in every other aspect she was my true hero. Yet, her lack of organization left an indelible impression on me. Truthfully, I was embarrassed and frustrated by it. I have carried these feelings of shame into my adulthood hoping that if everything looked in order, no one would know of my disorganized past.

In response to my mother’s messiness, I became hopelessly fussy and overly neat. To the point where I don’t know if I am capable of change at this time in my life. My neatness is so ingrained in me. I think the best that can happen is to let people know, “My house, My rules.” I will strive, however, to not make my bed at least once a week, and to leave the kitchen chairs slightly askew. I think the greatest take away from this recent experience is to realize that I love an orderly home, but not to the extent that it alienates family and friends. Not to mention alienating myself from the pure enjoyment of my own home. Living in a catalogue-styled home is just not realistic for anyone.

Later, next month, my husband and I will have the opportunity for a repeat performance. Family members will be visiting our home for the holidays. Brave souls. Will I be any different this time around? I don’t know. I can’t force myself to relax. Instead, I just need to be the wounded, flawed, perfectly imperfect person that I am. No stains and all. I have also come to realize that I need to own this part of who I am, and to not make any excuses or apologies for my neatness (provided I do not go overboard). In fact, I may just make a sign to hang over the front door stating “FUSS BUTT ON BOARD.” That about says it all.